I have journeyed with these people since September, 2008, at which time we embarked on a wild ride into the spiritual formation labyrinth together via a Master of Arts program through Spring Arbor University. We graduated in May, 2011.

This was what I originally posted after our final residency in Malibu (yes, California, where we suffered immeasurably even as the prophets before us). I miss them.

The “Conspirators” we call ourselves, based loosely on Eugene Peterson’s notion of subversive spirituality; that which weaves itself as an unstoppable force in faithful lives, moving deftly under the radar. We’re setting out to dethrone evil and injustice in the world while people are looking the other way and we’ve set a goal of becoming more like Jesus. Were I to forget everything read, spoken, thought or written, them I could not. They are Jesus to me. In them I “get” God; through them…

The wind is a restless soul tonight;

It rattles and shrieks in the tormented trees.

It teases the lamppost and makes her cry;

It chases the tail of the frantic breeze.

The panes and the lintels and frames are rattled;

They answer with sundry creaks and groans.

Shingles have all of their feelings flustered;

They vent their frustration in muffled moans.

Grasses and greenery join in the dance;

Cavorting and sighing, with frenzied wave,

They add to the motioned contortion; they prance,

And, all up in arms, with countenance grave

They heave, and they protest to bowing so low;

Creatures on edge, with tails fluffed on end

Slink around corners and sulk in moon’s glow,

Alarmed at the way in which all the world bends.

The wind is a restless soul tonight.

It enters my bedroom, infecting my rest;

My soul wanders with it, and, sensing its flight,

Allows it…

My oldest son, Calum, and his songwriting partner, Eli, recently wrote a love song entitled The Highs of Hellos. It is a love song of sheer genius on more than one level (but, of course, as a shameless stage Dad, what would you expect me to say?). The opening lyrics paint a black-and-white Casablanca type scenario of longing for love but also of its elusive quality:

“She says hello, monotone,

staring over the glass of a cocktail an hour old.

She says there’s no need to explain,

But then a restroom break turned into a departing plane.

And that bar piano man, he started playing…”

My point is not to depress everyone with sad love songs. What I will say is that, when facing the unspeakable ache of leaving with beloved faces in the rear-view mirror, songs with uncertain endings often make for good travel companions. Elton John once…

I’ve been thinking lately about what I may or may not have learned from a master’s degree in Spiritual Formation and Leadership I completed last year. Firstly, even upon writing that just now I am forced to admit that this is the kind of degree my parents warned me against. I can just hear them now, “spiritual formation! What the hell is that gonna get ya?” They would have strongly objected to something so…kumbaya and huggy (well, I did just blow out the candles after all). Perhaps time will tell what scraps there may have been in this sentiment. Secondly, who would ever, willingly and in good conscience, juxtapose the words “master” with “spiritual formation” anyway? A rather self-aggrandizing move, don’t you think? It is akin to proclaiming with assurance the attainment of humility. The assertion in itself denies the reality. Thirdly, the words “completed” and “spiritual formation” also do…

Eastertide. It’s tempting to think that, after the resurrection of Jesus, all was done that needed doing; all the loose ends neatly tied, the t’s crossed and i’s dotted. The whole Easter pie had only to cool on the window sill and hungry people could dig in to its holy goodness.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

In fact, it was only the beginning. The fifty day period that followed the empty tomb, celebrated at Pentecost (which means fifty weeks) and with it the coming of the Spirit, saw Jesus’ daily planner more packed than ever. Facing him were a veritable army of quaking, heart-broken, soul-sick, emotionally shattered disciples. Probably no one in history ever needed an encouraging word more than they!

So, while the religious leaders happily gloated over their perceived victory over this Nazarene upstart, Jesus was re-ligamenting (the same root from which we get religion) the…

Ash Wednesday, February 22, 2012

 

Begins again this Springward journey;

rebirthing all that once lived.

Trickle again once fickle brook and stream

sickle sighs yet in repose, sleeping still.

Earth, sore and Winter-stiff, seeks, sighs

stretches out skinny arms of want.

Her cold, hard bosom births not what soon will come

e’er the Sun’s hungry mouth suckles,

fills his lusty gut on hopeful barrenness

feasting on milk of timeworn, weary passage.

 

She forgets not the suddenness of late

and sooner dark, splayed upon a fine, greenness

come for to spite the buds of transforming light

bidding death where life has yet to emerge.

Warmly insistent she speaks, sharing her story

poured out over the long-shadowed land.

Bring such bothersome beauty to branchier speech,

fall around us, spilling, foaming such fury

and fermenting our soon-drunk wine of promise;

earthen spirit’s Eucharistic prayer.

 

Hush now, silence yourself bold coldness…